


However Many Roads, However Many Rivers

by slowlymovingfarforward



Category: Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: GPS - Geralt Positioning System, M/M, Magic, Magical talismans
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-08-07
Updated: 2020-08-07
Packaged: 2021-03-05 21:27:30
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,039
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25772077
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/slowlymovingfarforward/pseuds/slowlymovingfarforward
Summary: Jaskier's drunk and needs help undressing. Geralt bravely assists, and finds a surprise waiting for him.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Comments: 8
Kudos: 74





	However Many Roads, However Many Rivers

**Author's Note:**

> Just a little one to get my feet wet in these new fandom waters. This is mainly because like I'm sorry the Continent is HUGE Jaskier and Geralt would be doing wildly different things when apart, and I wanted there to be a reasonable way for Jaskier to keep ""running into"" Geralt to join and rejoin him on his adventures. 
> 
> Author warnings: a non-negotiated application of ribbons!!

Jaskier, the great idiot - doublet off, now, struggled out of and heaped on the floor, lips red - wine red - eyes young and wide and wet, framed by dark lashes. He's drunk, well and truly, beyond thought and, frankly, beyond reproach, for what good would it do him now, anyway.

He is very young. Geralt steadies him with a strong grip around his bicep as they stumble up the stairs into their room. Geralt steels himself for what's next.

"Geralt," Jaskier purrs, leaning into him, trying to twine his arms around Geralt's neck as he shuts the door but only succeeding in tangling their legs together. He puckers his mouth obscenely, exaggeratedly, straining against Geralt's hold, and manages to finally plop a big wet one right on Geralt's cheek, the bastard, grinning triumphantly up at him afterwards.

Geralt, who had been too busy trying to fumble their key into the lock while fending off Jaskier’s attentions to retaliate, somehow finds his own mouth twitching up, despite the recent feeling of the bard's lips upon his skin, which still tingles from his kiss.

He stiffens, halting his grin, and shoves Jaskier onto the bed where he immediately sprawls, eyes trying to focus on Geralt under his tousled hair. "Oh, Geralt, you're so good to me," he sighs, rapturous, as Geralt roughly divests him of his boots, his fine woolen hose disappearing into his trouser legs. "Geralt, Geralt come here to me my dear, let me repay the favour-"

Geralt muffles the bard by roughly tugging his fine linen shirt over his head, soft embroidered wildflowers catching on his calloused thumbs. Jaskier squirms out of the arms and falls back as though exhausted, laughing a little, sounding exhillarated and strange when Geralt gets to work on his trousers. Geralt tells himself, as he works on the little fussy ties at Jaskier's front, that he's really doing this as a favor to himself. If Jaskier goes and gets sick on all his nice clothes, again, Geralt's going to hear nothing else for the rest of their ride west. Jaskier kicks a few times, what he probably thinks of as flirtatious and playful, but which in his current uncoordinated state almost catches Geralt on the nose twice before the damn trousers are finally peeled away, leaving Jaskier in his beribboned hose and smalls.

The sight halts Geralt in his tracks anew.

"What," he says slowly, "the fuck."

Jaskier blinks up at him owlishly. His hose is well fitted, and he sees the customary ribbons (red, silk) tied below the knee. But then. Just there, binding the meat of his left thigh like a second garter - an old, worn strip of leather, such as one might use to tie up their hair for a number of years before inexplicably losing it a few months previous - 

His nose flares. He can still scent it, under the bard's oils and lotions. Himself. Mingled with Jaskier, where Jaskier smells earthy and true. Almost involuntarily, he reaches out, hooks a finger through it, curious, watches Jaskier's flesh spill slightly out around the dark leather length.

Jaskier stills at last, beginning to turn an unattractive shade of red. Geralt releases him, sitting back a bit. "What the fuck," he grits out again, with feeling.

Jaskier is trying to focus on him, looking muzzily between Geralt and his own leg. "Ah," he manages at length. "Would you look at that." He frowns for a moment, deadly serious, as if also surprised by the discovery.

Geralt takes Jaskier by the forearms and pins them down firmly to the bed, to keep the bard from twining like a particularly inebriated vine around him. The bard is an affectionate drunk, which Geralt supposes is better than a weepy one, and which explains virtually every episode of his long and unfortunate amorous history. "Jaskier," he says again, squeezing his wrists so the bard will stay focused on him. "Explain."

The blush, which had been slowly advancing beyond his cheeks and arrived at his prominent collarbones, intensifies. Geralt scents him almost involuntarily, senses a sort of scrambling panic prickling through the tipsy good cheer. Jaskier blinks a few times and licks his lips: he's about to lie.

"Be honest," he warns. He's not in the mood. Babysitting Jaskier, whose long clever fingers and pink wicked tongue are nearly always up to something unsavoury or very near it, whose eyes are so blue, so unclouded, even in the dead of the night in the frozen north, with nothing but a blanket between them for warmth, is taxing enough. Working time and half to keep the bard safe and unharmed despite his almost impressive efforts to be killed on a near-daily basis - for free - is only forgivable due to the congenital nature of Jaskier’s more obvious stupidities. This includes but is not limited to: routinely following a Witcher into the jaws of death, making an attempt at soothing said Witcher in the aftermath of a hunt once by placing his hands directly over Geralt's on his sword hilts, repeatedly trying to wield his lute as a weapon, and, on one memorable occasion, attempting to seduce the vengeful ghost of an alderman's wife after an evening spent enjoying the local opium brew.

But this. This makes Geralt’s nose itch, and not in a good way. Small personal items are....tokens. Tied a certain way, in a certain place. Tying the item’s owner with it’s wearer. He’s halfway to an explanation already when Jaskier finally coordinates a response.

“It’s not - it’s not what it looks like,” he yelps, just as Geralt growls, “Are you tracking me?”

“No!” Jaskier says, sobering quickly now. “Not - not really. Well, maybe a bit. A teensy bit!”

Geralt growls and reaches for the tie a second time, but Jaskier’s hand, now free, quickly follows to stay his hand. “Do you have any idea,” he grinds out, his patience fleeing quickly, “how absolutely fucked this is? If any one, including your whores and bedmates, were to nick it off you -” 

Jaskier is quick to reply. “No! Geralt, it’s. It’s not a tracker. Not in itself. Not really. It just sort of...helps me a little. To find you, or to know you’re safe. The spell is broken as soon as it’s untied from around me, see?” And here his own slim white fingers rather deftly tug away at it, where it falls stiffly to the bed. Geralt wonders where this coordination was a few moments ago, and is beginning to suspect that Jaskier’s outrageous drunkenness was more show than fact. As soon as the knot is untied, Geralt’s nose stops itching, and he feels the total absence of any atonal magical notes in the room. 

He hums, curious despite himself. His fingers curl around the tie once more. It’s been....twisted around something else, a wire or something similar - he brings it closer but Jaskier’s fingers appear again to cover the little token protectively. “It’s my. Er. Lute string,” he says by way of explanation, renewing his blush for some reason. Jaskier needs new lute strings every few months and on occasion a new lute. Geralt can’t imagine on which occasion Jaskier had managed to secret himself away for a few hours and return with such a complex magical trinket on their journeys together. “That - that ties me to you, you see. So it’s reciprocal.”

“Who did this,” Geralt asks, ignoring him.

“Triss. You know Triss!” Geralt does, and he feels both his eyebrows shoot up to his hairline.

“Triss? What does Triss have to do with this?” Knowing it was her who did this eases some of his worry. Some.

“She’s very - sympathetic, I suppose. And kind. And absolutely stunning, hair like a thousand coiled roses, et cetera - why you choose to keep company with that purple-eyed she-demon is completely beyond me - “

“Don’t speak against Yen. Who else knows of it?” Already he can feel his hackles rising, his senses overextended to try and suss out any third party, someone tailing them for miles - days - weeks, even - 

“No one! No one. Just Triss, I swear it! Geralt, it’s not even meant to pinpoint your location, it only lets me know if I’m close, within a league or two of you, and if you’re alive. Triss specifically told me she wouldn’t pinpoint you, because it would be to dangerous.” 

He would have to pay Triss a visit then, to thank her. “If you were ever found with that on you -” he starts, but Jaskier seems desperate to cut him off.

“I know, I know. I’m totally useless, am I? I always keep it in Roach’s pack when we’re travelling together, I would have done it tonight if we hadn’t had such an exceptional reception at the tavern,” here he smiles a little, something strange to his expression, and after a few attempts takes the leather-wrapped lute string from Geralt before placing it gently on the bed. “It’s only for my peace of mind, you see,” he adds quietly. “It’s so I can know you’re safe, when we’re apart, and find you, if you need - someone.”

Geralt doesn’t know what to say that he hasn’t said before. The bard won’t listen anew if he tries to remind him that he wants for no one, and nothing besides. He scoffs. As though he’s the one that needs tabs kept. He should have Triss fashion a leash for Jaskier, then, see how the bard likes it. And a gag. He drops his gaze from Jaskier’s earnest eyes to his rosy shoulders to his slightly heaving chest, and then further, drawn almost unwillingly to the place that started all this.

The band has left a rosy indent on Jaskier’s thigh. He hums, his thoughts turning over like stones in a river, and he watches as his thumb alights on the dark-haired flesh, to feel the mark of his leather against Jaskier’s soft skin. 

Jaskier makes a noise, then, high, keening. Geralt’s grip on Jaskier’s other wrist slackens as he reconsiders the gag idea, and Jaskier rises up to meet him like a wave, twining his arms and legs around him, nosing at Geralt’s temple like he can also scent him for his feelings, which he must do, because then he is smiling brightly and flipping them over and stretching sinuously over Geralt like a crescent moon. “I worry over you, when we’re apart,” he murmurs into Geralt’s hair, his neck, dropping little kisses everywhere. “And I keep it there-” he presses his left leg into Geralt’s touch, “because it’s yours.” 

“Nothing’s mine,” Geralt manages, finally, mind shot through blank. His hands are running up and down Jaskier’s legs, feeling the stockings and garters give way to skin. He’s stalling - he feels Jaskier’s impatient shifting atop him, his nose and mouth filled with nothing but the scent of him - headier than any of Jaskier’s perfumes. Jaskier pauses above him, and looks down, almost pityingly. 

“Oh, Geralt,” he sighs, and this time he swoons down towards him in earnest, kissing him lushly and greedily, again and again and again. “Don’t you know? It’s all yours. All of it.” Geralt returns to himself suddenly, the words unlocking in him all the half-formed intentions and thoughts of the last hours and weeks and days. Jaskier yelps delightedly when Geralt swiftly undoes his garters and ties them anew, at Jaskier’s wrists and over his mouth. The hose begins to slip; Geralt tugs them off with Jaskier’s smallclothes, soaked in the front, and he feels mad when he sees him, his bard trussed up in these fine wide ribbons.

“Be still,” he says, putting a hand on Jaskier’s stomach to keep him from moving, and then ducks down to his lovely pink cock. And then off again to his dusky pink hole, laving it with kisses, hearing Jaskier’s whines and squeals muffled through the gag, feeling his muscles tense and pull as he tries in vain to buck up into and away from Geralt’s mouth.

“Have me,” Jaskier demands through the ribbon, wet from his mouth and darkening. Geralt looks up at him wildly, the taste of him still strong and unyielding on his tongue.

Geralt will have him. He will have Jaskier in every way.


End file.
